


Catch (Don't Let Me Break)

by Patchcat



Series: Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: mating_games, Established Relationship, Grieving, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchcat/pseuds/Patchcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't know what caused his breakdown, but they'll be there to catch him as he falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch (Don't Let Me Break)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mating_Games Round 2, Bonus 5 - Recipes. 
> 
> There is a mention of a character's death. Please see ending notes if you wish to know who.

“I’m home!” Scott yelled as he closed the front door and slipped his shoes off, leaving them on the mat. Nobody answered him, which wasn’t all _that_ unusual, nevermind that both the Jeep and the Toyota were parked in the drive. Frowning, he made his way down the front hall.

Stopping at the entrance to the kitchen, he quirked a brow and took in the scene in front of him. Derek was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, rolling a bottle of water between his hands as he stared across the kitchen. His brow was furrowed with concern, and Scott followed his gaze. 

Stiles stood in front of the sink, practically _covered_ in flour from head to toe. Clumps of wet batter clung to various areas of his clothes, and what looked to be bits of eggshell hung haphazardly in his hair. He was staring forlornly into the bowl he held, pausing every now and then in his furious whisking to mutter, “It’s not right. Why isn’t it right? It _has to be right_!” as he pulled some of the batter up and then dropped the whisk back down with a splat only to stir harder.

“Stil -- “ Scott started, only to be interrupted by Derek as he whipped around in his chair and made frantic “shut up” motions. Scott’s eyes widened in concern and he snapped his mouth shut with a click. Looking between Stiles -- who had set the bowl down and was running his flour and batter covered hands through his hair -- and Derek, he took a seat at the island and asked in a voice low enough Stiles couldn’t hear, “What is going on? What’s he doing?” 

Derek just shook his head and rumbled, “I don’t know. He was doing this when I got home. Started ranting about it having to be perfect and just about threw a fit when I tried to help him.” They both looked up at the sound of a bowl slamming down onto the counter, then sliding to the floor to spin for a few seconds before settling on it’s open end. “I have no idea what’s wrong. He won’t talk to me.”

Across the kitchen, Stiles started to collapse to his knees, hands over his face as he shook his head. Scott and Derek both were out of their seats in a flash, catching him before he hit the floor. Scott cradle Stiles against his chest while Derek wrapped his arms around both of them and settled them all back against the cabinet. 

Gently, Scott moved Stiles’ hands from his face and wiped at the tears he found there. This was alarming. Stiles didn’t cry. Not like this, and Scott wasn’t quite sure what to do. A glance at Derek showed him at just as much of a loss. 

Tilting Stiles’ chin so that he had to look at them, Scott softly asked, “What’s wrong?”

Stiles didn’t answer. Just wrenched his head from Scott’s grasp and ducked down to bury his face in Scott’s neck, reaching out and resting his hand on whatever part of Derek he could reach, and sobbed. His body trembled and shook with the force of his upset, and all Derek and Scott could do was sit and hold him. 

They both whined softly when consoling touches and gentle kisses did nothing to calm him. Scott almost felt like they should be used to this helplessness. Stiles had never been good at sharing his burdens or his grief, not wanting to trouble anyone with either. 

Eventually, though, the sobs subsided, their caresses and soft words accepted and leaned into, and Stiles started to calm. He didn’t uncurl from his position in Scott’s arms, and Scott rocked him gently while Derek ran a hand up and down his back and buried his nose in Stiles’ nape. They sat there with only the sounds of Stiles’ harsh breathing and the drip-drip-drip of batter hitting the floor to break the silence. 

Scott and Derek exchanged a concerned glance, and waited. Neither was sure what, exactly, had set this of; but Scott hoped Stiles would tell them. Finally, after long enough for Scott’s ass to go numb from the hard kitchen floor, Stiles drew a deep, shaky breath and unfolded from Scott’s lap. He bent down and picked up the fallen bowl, setting it gently in the sink, and pressed his hands to the edge, leaning his weight against them. 

Derek slid out from behind Scott and stepped up behind Stiles, hesitantly placing his hand against a still trembling shoulder. Scott just watched from the floor, a little disgruntled that even werewolf healing couldn’t stop the pins and needles of cut off circulation. 

“Stiles?” Derek said quietly. 

Stiles jerked away from his touch, folding his arms and hunching into himself. “It’s not -- it’s not right,” he muttered. “It’s all wrong, Derek. All wrong. Why is it all _wrong_?!” He was yelling by the end, his strident, anguished voice echoing through the room. 

“Stiles!” Scott pushed himself off the floor and crossed the room. Stiles stood still, neck bent, his hands back in his hair, and his chest rising and falling with his upset breath. Scott put his hands on Stiles’s shoulder, bending to try and catch his eyes. “Stiles, you have to tell us what’s wrong, buddy. We can’t help you if we don’t know --”

“Help?” Stiles interrupted with a harsh, twisted laugh. He swung his hands down, breaking Scott’s hold on him, and then pushed him away. “You can’t help, _Scott_. You can’t make this _better_. You can’t make this right!” His breath hitched on another sob as he whispered, “You can’t bring them back.”

“I know.” Derek’s voice was low and a little bit broken as he gathered Stiles against him from behind, pulling him to his chest and buried his face into Stiles’ nape. “I know, Stiles. I know we can’t ...but maybe we can lighten the load? Let us help you. Please.”

Stiles turned and burrowed into Derek’s chest, his breath hitching as his sobs renewed. “It’s not -- It’s his birthday. I have to -- She always made -- It’s not right. Not right… .” He kept repeating “it’s not right”, his voice growing more and more hoarse with emotion until a human wouldn’t have been able to make out his words anymore.

Eyes widening in realization, Scott could have punched himself. How could he have missed hits? Today was the Sheriff’s birthday. The first one Stiles would be celebrating without his father, and only six months after Stilinski was shot and killed in the line of duty. 

Stiles had always been so worried that it would be the supernatural that would take his father away from him. It had been a huge shock when it was just some mundane asshole who didn’t want to go back to jail. A routine traffic that wasn’t so routine.

Stiles had been devastated. He hadn’t eaten for days, wouldn’t leave their house or the blanket cocoon he had made on their sofa for weeks, wouldn’t even entertain the thought of intimate company or take any comfort from his boyfriends at all, no matter how hard or often they offered it. Scott and Derek had both been afraid that they were going to lose him, too. 

It had been a relief when, one day a few weeks ago, completely out of the blue, Stiles had thrown his blanket cocoon aside, grabbed both their hands, and dragged them into the bedroom, demanding that they make him remember what it felt like to have their hands all over him. They’d been more than happy to oblige, taking their time reacquainting themselves with each other. Scott had thought, then, that they were past the worst of it. 

Looking around at the chaos in their kitchen, Scott realized just how wrong he’d been. Turning back to the others, he stepped up and wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, leaning his forehead against his back and cocooning him between his boyfriends. “It’s okay, Stiles,” Scott whispered, laying a kiss to the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Stiles answered, shaking his head, his hair brushing lightly against Scott’s face. “No, Scott. It’s really not.” 

Scott saw the widening dampness against Derek’s shirt and tightened his arms around Stiles. He shot a helpless look at Derek over Stiles’ shoulder. He didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know what words to offer. It was a problem he’d had even years ago, when Stiles’ mother had died. Back then, though, it was easier to distract Stiles with video games and physical activities. 

“Just hold him,” Derek said quietly enough for only Scott to hear. “That’s what he needs right now.” 

So that’s what they did, standing in a batter splattered kitchen on a day that should be full of joking and teasing and joy. Every now and then, one of them would adjust their hold on Stiles, or kiss whatever part of him was closest because that’s really all they could do. 

Slowly, though, Stiles’ tears stopped and his breathing evened out and Scott noticed that he was very close to being asleep. Catching Derek’s eye, he stepped back and slipped Stiles’ arm over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

Stiles just nodded and let Scott lead him to the bedroom. He stood listlessly in the middle of the room where Scott left him while he went to get a damp towel, and didn’t move or make a sound as Scott scrubbed the worst of the batter out of his hair and helped him out of his dirty clothes. It made Scott’s heart ache to watch Stiles climb into the bed and curl around himself, eyes puffy and red, a deep frown marring his features as he drifted off to sleep.

Making his way back into the kitchen, he leaned against the island and watched Derek scrape batter off the floor and the cabinets for a bit before moving to grab a broom. Derek caught him as he walked past, pulling him into a hard hug and buried his nose at the join of Scott’s neck and shoulder. They stood there for a few minutes, just holding each other.

“I think he was making his dad’s birthday cake,” Scott said finally, breaking the sad, oppressive silence that had fallen over the house. “It was his mom’s recipe.” 

Derek just nodded before pulling away, and they finished cleaning things up. 

Later, when they crawled into bed and wrapped Stiles up between them, Stiles’ head on Derek’s shoulder and Scott’s head resting on Stiles’ stomach, he heard Derek soothing Stiles. “It’ll be okay. Maybe not today, but it will get better. I promise.” He heard Derek kiss the side of Stiles’ head before he continued, “We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere. We love you.”

Scott pulled himself up and tucked his head under Stiles’ chin, hugged him tighter, and let Stiles’ tears melt into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Reference is made to the death of Sheriff Stilinski. It's the reason for Stiles' breakdown.
> 
> I've tagged this to the best of my ability, but if you see something that needs to be added, please let me know.


End file.
